


Growing Up Gutterson... Givens...

by somethingclever



Series: Tim IS a caring and nurturing person. [14]
Category: Justified
Genre: Two Dads, but it's worth it, so is family, teenagers are difficult
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-20
Updated: 2018-01-20
Packaged: 2019-03-07 07:20:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13429707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somethingclever/pseuds/somethingclever
Summary: Artie's sometimes prone to doin' dumb shit.Good thing he's got two dads.





	Growing Up Gutterson... Givens...

Raylan turned up his hearing aids. "Arthur," Tim's voice held warning, and Artie's, indignation and frustration, "I said no."

"You're just prejudiced because he's a militant pacifist. I don't get what the big deal is, it's just across town-"

Tim laughed, and Raylan heard Artie's huff of annoyance and winced - kid hated to be laughed at, "I don't care that he's a pacifist - he does know what militant means, right? For fuck's sake- I care that he's a loser, and twenty-some years old. And he wants you to move in?"

"He's only twenty three. I'm seventeen, and-"

"You're sixteen, and an adult shouldn't be interested in you, son," Tim said.

"I'm not your son!"

...shit, shots fired, officer down, Raylan thought, getting up and walking into the kitchen, where the battleground was occurring, "This about that Wendell kid?"

"Yes," Artie said, glaring at Tim, whose face was a carefully neutral blank, "Tim says he's too old, a loser, a pervert, and I can't go out with him, and I'm telling him he's a free spirit and he loves me and I love him. And he hasn't been creepy. " Love, at sixteen? Oh, lord preserve them. "And he's being a hypocrite," the boy continued, his face flushed, and Tim kept unloading the dishwasher, his teeth firmly closed, "You're sixteen years older than he is, and he sleeps with you, and I haven't slept with Wendell! He hasn't even asked!"

"Yet," Tim muttered into the cabinet, and Raylan resisted the urge to laugh. 

"Well," Raylan said, "That's true, but when I met him, your dad was an adult. He'd been out on his own for... how long?"

"Seven years," Tim said, and Raylan heard the strain in his voice. ARtie could, too, and was ignoring it. "Fourteen, by the time we got together, I think?"

"Right. He was in his thirties. I was in my forties. But," Raylan shrugged, "We were at the same stage in our careers, and with our kids, and with our lives - it wasn't like one of us had a leg up on the other."

"Mm," Tim said, "I sure had one on you in Kentucky."

"Well, it was the worst fuckin' years of my entire life," Raylan said.

"Second time worse than the first?" Tim looked surprised, eyes flashing to his face.

"Yes," Raylan said, and cut his eyes over to Arthur, who was sulking.

"You can have him for dinner," Tim said, "If you really want."

"He won't want to come."

"Why not?"

Artie blushed, and Raylan didn't like this Wendell kid, even without meeting him. "I told you, he's a pacifist, and he says-"

"Ah," Tim said, nodding, "Is it me or Raylan he has issues with?"

"Mostly you," Artie admitted, "He says the war in Afghanistan was an unforgivable travesty, and the soldiers should have - we fought about it." he trailed off. Raylan watched as their son's words cut into his partner, and wished there was a way to step between. There wasn't, there would only be later, when Tim would bury his face in Raylan's chest and beg to stop thinking. Tim looked at his son silently, waiting. "He did admit it wasn't your fault..." he squirmed.

"Well," Tim said "I'm certainly glad he's got th'freedom of speech and isn't afraid to use it. And that's his right, for sure."

"Yeah," Artie said, "He's smart."

Tim looked at Raylan helplessly, and Raylan waved a hand - he was no help with shit like this, he'd been the bad boy, back in high school, but then, he'd never gone sniffing around younger kids - for fuck's sake, Ava Randolph had wanted him and she'd been too damn young! "I said no, Arthur."

Artie accepted it with poor grace, but he accepted it - or at least, he seemed to.

Tim slid out of bed late that night, and Raylan sat up to put in his hearing aids - Tim waved him back down, and he he didn't get up, listening. 

 

Tim sighed, "You could have used the door, Arthur."

his son yelped and jumped, turning on him with a tazer in hand - and looking absolutely petrified. "I, I, uh, dad, I-"

"I'm not your jail warden," Tim told him, "I'm your father. I can't stop you from making stupid choices, but I'll be damned if I don't tell you that you're doin' it. It's a stupid choice you're making, right now, but I suppose you think it's worth it. But, I want you to know, this isn't the end. Okay?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, you can unmake this choice any time you want. You can come back, you can break up with him, you can call me. I won't throw this in your face. God knows I did dumb shit at your age, but I didn't have a father I would have ever wanted to take me back. Even if you don't think I'm right, right now, I hope you at least know I love you?"

He got an armful of teenager, and held him tightly, sucking in a deep breath, memorizing his scent and pressing his cheek to his hair, "I love you, too, dad."

"He picking you up?"

"Yeah, a few blocks over," Artie said, shuffling his feet in embarrassment. 

Tim didn't comment - his son was smart. He'd figure this guy out sooner or later. The less he said, the better. "Be safe," he said, tugging him in to kiss his temple briefly, "I'm going back to bed, but my phone's on."

"Okay. I'll see you later."

Tim nodded and went back inside, sliding into bed with Raylan again and letting out a shuddering breath. He wasn't gonna follow him - that young man didn't seem dangerous, Raylan said, just immature and probably a bit of a narcissist. 

Artie'd catch on soon enough.

God, it was hard to let him make a mistake like that...

Who knew, maybe he'd misjudged that little shit. Who couldn't keep a job, had more tickets than years driving, and simply...

ha. hahahaa. No. Not likely.

"I just gotta remind myself," Tim told Raylan, "That I did dumb shit at his age, and I'm fine. Hell, you were kissin' Boyd at his age-"

"No," Raylan said, "Still just girls at sixteen, Boyd at nineteen and only the once- in my defense it was only half-stupid at the time?"

"Mm," Tim curled against his side, and tried to tell himself he hadn't just made a huge, huge mistake.

 

Artie looked at the apartment, half-listening- but only half- as Wendell went on about how awesome it was that he'd got this place, Art would be out of the oppressive environment at home, had grown up like Wendell knew he would, and could finally express his true nature, and he...

Would have, a few hours ago, been delighted, flattered, and charmed to be thought an adult. But in an apartment with three twenty-something's and their mess- he could feel his father's twitch at the smell. Before it hadn't bothered him, just figured it was inevitable with guys living together, but now...

"This place is a sty," he commented.

"Dude," Brett looked up from his laptop, offended, "Don't be a whiny bitch."

Wendell just tugged him towards his room, and Art sighed, dropping his bag.

You can unmake the choice, his dad said. Come home anytime. But wasn't that cowardly? He hadn't been gone more than a few hours, and he already missed it?

"You know," he said slowly, "Maybe I should go home."

"What? You said he said you could go! And he probably put trackers in your shoes, that paranoid son of a bitch. Why go back to the regime, man?"

"If he did," Art snapped, "It would only be because he cares about what happens-"

"If something happened to you, it would probably be because he killed somebody! One shot, one kill! I've seen his record."

Art felt his stomach drop, "What?"

"It's part of knowing your enemy," Wendell said earnestly, putting an arm over Artie's shoulders, "We have all sorts of records- he was my assignment, you know, find out what I could, and then I met you, and I just- I had to save you from people like them."

People like...

His dad.

Raylan.

"You saw his records? Those are sealed-"

"We're everywhere, and there are interns everywhere. Here, look for yourself." Wendell opened his laptop, logged into the darknet, and pulled up files and photos and- and a profile.

"What do you want this for?"

"You aren't ready for that, yet."

...yeah, screw this. He didn't mind political idealism, but this... this was dangerous. He was looking at things he shouldn't... 

But he'd always wanted to know. 

He clicked on the first tab. He was halfway through when he had to throw up, the dates and brief descriptions of military actions tearing into him.

His daddy had been one year older than him, and he'd killed people. It was wrong, and it hurt, and he could remember the men who had kidnapped him when he was little, who wanted his dad to kill somebody for them.

He hadn't done it.

"People still try to hire him," Wendell said, "He probably does those jobs on the weekends-"

The weekends? When dad slept in until eight and made pancakes and took him to games and mowed the lawn and kissed Raylan until Art decided he wanted to be in his room?

No.

"This is... a lot to digest." He clocked another tab and bit back a sound of pain.

Who took photographs of that? 

And this was why, he knew with blazing clarity, he'd never seen his dad's shirt off. Oh, god, he was an idiot.

"I'm gonna go shower," he said, picking up his bag and going to the bathroom, locking the door behind him, turning on the shower and trying not to scream.

He couldn't call dad, he couldn't...

Raylan. He could call Raylan.

*~*  
Raylan reached for his cell- Tim had finally fallen asleep, and he slept through Raylan's ringtone- a gift Raylan was immensely jealous of. Must be nice.

Art: come get me, please don't tell dad. 

On my way.

He slid out of bed, shushed the half-waking of his partner with 'call from the office', got the half-asleep kiss, and headed down to the car.

He scooped his badge and gun up on the way out, but didn't bother with more than he was wearing, or full shoes.

Artie was waiting under a streetlight, and got in the car, folding himself into the front seat. Raylan turned the car around, and glanced over at him. Tears were streaming down his face, and he wiped them away with his hands, making a goddamn mess.

Dairy Queen had a drive through. "This shit requires ice cream," he grumbled and Artie laughed brokenly. Well, he could still laugh. "Want anything?"

"Dipped cone."

"Of course," Raylan nodded and ordered, handing their son both cones and getting parked. "Don't look to be hurt?" He asked, licking at the ice cream cone, watching him closely. Hadn't moved like it.

"Didn't touch me," Artie said listlessly, scrubbing at the tears some more. "I can't believe I-" his chin wobbled and he looked at the ice cream melting over his fingers. "I was so stupid-"

"He try anything?" Raylan asked, more than ready to go terrorize that little shit ass punk, making their boy cry! Little fucker... he could feel a good ol' Arlo fit comin' on and boy howdy, he didn't care! 

Kick that shithead into next week, show him militant- Art shook his head, more tears rolling down his face. "He say something to you? Or did his friends?"

"No, no, it was nothing like that, dad," Artie said.

Raylan almost put his thumb through the ice cream cone. Art called him dad when he was sick, upset, or overjoyed. It happened about as often as a blue whale was spotted. He treasured every single occurrence- but this one, God- "Arthur," he said, "You better tell me what's going on."

Artie nibbled listlessly at his cone, telling Raylan about how he'd met Wendell, how much he'd liked him and just- he was smart and fun and weird but in a good way. And then he'd started talking about Art's dad, about the War, and, well...

He was mad at dad, and had listened and Wendell had said- oh, so many things, and they made sense. Kind of. He'd said stuff about Raylan using his 'influence' to keep Tim 'cleared', but honestly, he hadn't paid attention much. After all, it was just one of Wendell's... things.

Like Art was about music.

Until... he'd finished his cone and wished he hadn't, so he didn't have to say the next part. "He showed me dad's service record," he said, "and- and photos of when he was wounded. And his profile as... as a hitman."

Saying it out loud hurt. It hurt so bad.

"He tried to say he still does it on the weekends and I know he can't possibly, he's always with us. I don't think he could, Raylan, he's always with us. I don't think he..." 

"There's nowhere else Tim wants to be, Artie."

"I know, but I can't..." he covered his face with his hands, "I had to come home. I had to. I couldn't stay."

"That," Raylan said in his soft way, "Was a mighty brave choice."

"I was so stupid," Artie sobbed, "I shoulda realized he was just... he said he wanted to get me away from dad, and I don't get it."

"He's a weird shithead," Raylan said, remembering Boone a little too well for just a moment, "And he got fixated on you."

"What do we do?"

"Go home. And you show me what he showed you."

"I don't think you should see it, Raylan, it's really-"

"Son," Raylan said quietly, "Who do you think's held your daddy when he can't forget? Doubt there's much in there he hasn't told me what he could about."

"But the pictures," Artie choked, "Oh, Raylan, I didn't... I shouldn't have looked, I wish I hadn't-"

"I'm sorry, honey," Raylan tugged the boy closer, inconvenient in the car, and for an instant he missed his old bench seat truck. "It- it fades, with time. Things you've seen do."

"Do they really?"

"Most things," Raylan said, "Generally." He dug into the console for wet wipes. Never met a Marshal who didn't have a pack full, and he was no exception.

"What are you going to tell dad?"

And wasn't that the question of the day?

"I don't know," Raylan answered. 

"Oh," Artie looked at him, horror in his face, "He won't- would he kill them? Raylan, you can't-"

"If they'd raped you, yes," Raylan answered plainly, watching as Arthur flinched, "If they'd beaten you, probably. In either case, damn straight I would have helped him. As it stands... no. Artie, he's your father. The same man you knew yesterday. Would you have really asked me that yesterday?"

"Yesterday," Artie snapped, "I didn't know he'd kill people for money!"

Oh, and there it was, the Gutterson-Givens temper, and Raylan wasn't gonna let it stand just now! "And yet," Raylan said, "It’s been over a decade since he's done anything of the sort, and if you were to look at those contracts, you'd see they were through the government. He did it because he couldn't be a Marshal anymore. He couldn't do it because a bitch disliked him and tried to strong arm him, and he said no. Takes balls to do that. I really think those were- I wasn't paying attention, I had my own shit and we didn't like each other- but I think those years e was in Kentucky, and right after... I think they may have been some of the hardest in his life. He took contracts to get out. And he quit, when he had enough money to retire. He was a broken man, Arthur. I could see through him, like a ghost. He was thirty years old and his life was over. I told him he should raise foster kids and he said no."

Artie stared at him, mouth open and eyes wide, "He said... he said no?"

"He couldn't bear to have to give 'em back," Raylan said, "To parents that didn't take care of 'em. He knew he'd love 'em too much. And he adopted you instead and got another job, and has half-killed himself to keep himself together, and a good man, and take care of you. He loves you, and me, and would do anything he had to do to take care of you. That's what you should be thinking of, not that he took contracts during the hardest years of his life."

The boy bit into his lip, and Raylan looked at him, watching as more tears ran down his face, "Artie, honey," he said softly, remembering first meeting him as a tiny scrap of a human, remembering Tim's face as he held him- "He's still your daddy. I promise you, you haven't found out that he's a bad man."

"I know. I know." Raylan kissed his temple gruffly and pulled out of the parking lot. "...did you come out in your pajamas?" Artie noticed for the first time, and laughed, his voice cracking back towards tears, "Raylan!"

"I didn't know if I had time to get dressed," Raylan said.

"Where'd you put your gun, though?"

"Son," Raylan eyed him, "I got two hands. I don't hardly need to shove it in my trousers. Keys in the left, gun in the right-"

Art laughed shakily, "Of course."

Raylan pulled into the drive, turning out the lights so Tim wouldn't be woken up. They stole through the house to the computers, and Raylan plugged Art's laptop into Tim's darknet port. It took Art a few minutes, but he got to the address Wendell had used.

Raylan sighed and took the laptop, "Go on to bed, Art."

The boy shifted his feet, "Thanks."

"Hmm?" He peered up at him.

"For coming for me. And not yelling."

"I figure you've learned a bunch," Raylan replied, "And don't hardly need me shouting at you. G'wan now."

Artie headed upstairs and Raylan went through the file, tab by tab.

Well, it wasn't as bad as Artie thought, but it wasn't good...

And that little shithead had posted their home address under personal information- and Art's name and age -picture coming soon- Raylan's name, ten-years-put-of-date photo, and age and current fucking employment, and...

Raylan clicked the link to his own profile.

Incomplete, but an accurate assessment of his potential for violence. What did these stupid fuckheads think they could do with this?

He'd have to tell Tim... shit.

Would he, though? He rubbed at his mouth thoughtfully, leaning back and thinking about it.

No trouble had come of it yet, and those damn kids weren't part of anything bigger- clicking around their site told him that- and besides...

He didn't want to. He just didn't want to see that knife plunge through Tim's ribs and twist. They were too old for this.

At least, he was.

He logged out, shut down the computer, got a drink, and went back to bed. He paused, looking down at Tim in the half-light, watching the rise and fall of his chest, his hand stretched to Raylan's side of the bed, his hips turned towards him and his back flat. He wasn't young, anymore, and that was all right. Neither was Raylan. 

But fuck, he loved him more now than he could have when either of 'em were young- or, in Raylan's case, 'still young', which was a very different thing.

He slid beneath the blankets and took hold of that questing hand, rewarded with a soft sigh and Tim moving to welcome him, more than half-asleep and the only time he'd dare call his love sweet. He stroked his hand through the short hair and sighed, settling down to try to get some sleep.

Tim woke him at eight, pleasantly, and Raylan might not be as good as he once was, as that damn song went, but by god, he was as good once as he ever was! 

It was near on nine when Tim finally squirmed away, having had enough of being touched and setting his feet on the floor, a look of sadness flirting across his face was he stood, looking at the closed door- listening.

Raylan turned his hearing aids back on, "He's likely still sleeping," he said, "If you wanted to shower before you see him."

"He came home?" Tim looked at him sharply, looking at his phone, "He didn't-"

"He called me."

"I wouldn't have been mad-"

"He's got both of us, Tim, and last night he just wanted me. Don't take it the wrong way, and he didn't seem..." shit. What to say, "Angry."

"Shit," Tim ran his hands through his hair and went to the bathroom- Raylan sat up a bit to watch him go, and Tim laughed at him, like always. "Seen it a few thousand times by now, Raylan, you don't need to-"

"But I still love it," Raylan informed him, flopping back down with a grin. He heard the shower turn on and closed his eyes. 

Eh, may as well get up. Tim made room for him in the stall, and Raylan looked at the scars bisecting his torso, taking the washcloth and setting up to lathering Tim, pressing kisses along his neck- no more intent behind it but closeness and the want to taste him, to remind himself that the dying boy he'd seen last night healed into the man he held here, and Tim leaned against him again, content enough to let Raylan be affectionate, even washing Raylan's hair which, while white as snow, was still thick.

Thanks, Arlo.

Tim stepped out of the shower and dried, dressing, and padded into the hallway.

 

Art hadn't been able to sleep much- he'd cried a bit more, then washed his face and talked to his online friends for a few hours, and played some Warcraft. He fell asleep on his keyboard at five thirty or so, and when he woke, it was to soft sounds from his parents room- they were awake, and he needed to get a shower.

It didn't help his pounding headache, but his face looked less like crying shit and more like tired shit, so that was good. He slipped out of his bedroom and went downstairs, pulling out the pancake mix and griddle. 

It was Saturday. Dad liked pancakes on Saturdays. There was probably some fruit here too...

His dad came into the kitchen, and Artie found himself wrapped in a tight hug, "I am so glad," Tim choked, "I love you. We having pancakes?"

It couldn't be that easy, could it? But his dad's face was calm, smiling at him as he ruffled Art's hair, and...

"Can we get a haircut?" Wendell had liked it long and Tim hadn't, and Art...

He didn't like it either, it was annoying and got in his way and his face and his mouth, and it curled like a doll's at the ends.

"Yep, Raylan's looking year four in Kentucky himself."

"Oh, my rebelling against the dress code phase?"

"It was ridiculous, and you know it."

"Didn't stop you, did it?" Raylan headed for the fridge for bacon.

Art would love to say that he didn't talk to Wendell again, but he can't really say that, given that Wendell showed up outside the shooting range he went to with his dad and picketed with his three buddies, staring at Art the entire time. 

He would also love to say he took the high road out when Wendell called him a pig's son, and his father a baby killer. And some other things about Delilah that Art only understood from context and his dad's shoulders stiffening three strides ahead of him.

He cannot, however, say he did either of those things and he also cannot say that he regretted a bit of what he'd said in reply or taking the picket sign, breaking it over his knee, and, when that was too much for Wendell's dignity and he took a swing at Art, slapping the cheap wood on either side of Wendell's head.

Tim grounded him for a week, even though he's almost seventeen and Tim doesn't believe in grounding at that age but for fuck's sake, he'd said it all before, Art, why now?

Art kept his mouth shut, but he knew why now.

Because he knew his dad was a good man, and he'd been a kid when he'd done those things, and because he hadn't let any of the things Art had seen just glimpses of destroy him.

Wendell might have the philosophical rights of it, with society and all that shit, but Art figured that could go fuck itself. He'd take the moral right any day, his dad was a good man.

And Art would ensure that Wendell's teeth knew that, too.

**Author's Note:**

> I'M ALIVE. 
> 
> Barely. Sleep deprived as hell, but I'm here! There's at least one more story in this series, and I hope to have it up before June. Thank you for your patience with me!
> 
> If you left me a comment, it would make me so happy. Like a dragon getting more hoard... (speaking of, anybody interested in a Justified Dragons AU?)


End file.
